Yesterday, I thought if I wrote about what makes me happy, that the aching grief in me would dampened down. But, instead it got more painful.
So, I have decided to face my fears head-on.
The Ipswich murders have reminded of the reality of day-to-day dangers that I and most other prostituted had to survive. The terror of that period that part of my life is wanting to be heard.
I could not feel fear when I lived as a prostituted woman and girl. To show even the smallest sign of fear would given the men who used me too much pleasure.
I learnt to become an actor. I show the men nothing of myself.
Instead I became silent. I could pretend to be “happy” in order to try and prevent it hurting too much. I buried myself.
This was necessary to survive. But, it did not keep me safe.
Most of my grief comes from this question.
Why am I not dead?
When I hear of murdered prostitued women and girls, this question rattles round my brain. I have no answer – only I feel like screaming or crying.
I know women who had so much to live who could live any more. I was no different from them.
This is how too many people choose to see prostituted women. They will be ignored in life, and make them invisible in death.
I should be dead because I try so hard to die. Suicide is not easy.
I wonder if my spirit that I ignored was too stubborn to die.
I should be dead because many men played with my life and death. It was a “game” to bring on the edge of death, then to “save” my life.
I know the reason I have blanked out so most of that time is because I went in and out of consciousness.
Being on the edge of death, made me unable to know where I was. I would forget who I was.
All I was a lump that laying as still as I could, feeling like this moment of terror will never end.
This is my grief. I try to use language to describe it, but it always feel like I can never make it better.
I feel that as I had no justice, I find it hard to feel at peace.